Ronald Stuart Thomas

(1913 - 2000 / Cardiff / Wales)

Ronald Stuart Thomas Poems

1. Forest Dwellers 2/11/2016
2. The Absence 9/16/2015
3. The Bright Field 2/29/2016
4. The Dance 12/25/2014
5. A Marriage 2/3/2015
6. The Old Language 1/3/2003
7. The Woman 1/13/2003
8. Thirteen Blackbirds Looking At A Man 1/3/2003
9. Sorry 1/13/2003
10. The Village 1/13/2003
11. Welsh History 1/3/2003
12. On The Farm 1/13/2003
13. Taliesin 1/3/2003
14. The Dark Well 1/3/2003
15. Evans 1/13/2003
16. The Ancients Of The World 1/3/2003
17. Good 1/3/2003
18. The Way Of It 1/3/2003
19. Poetry For Supper 1/13/2003
20. Album 1/13/2003
21. Chapel Deacon 1/13/2003
22. Ruins 1/3/2003
23. An Old Man 1/13/2003
24. Welsh Landscape 1/13/2003
25. Death Of A Poet 1/13/2003
26. Night And Morning 1/3/2003
27. A Welshman To Any Tourist 1/3/2003
28. Praise 1/3/2003
29. A Welsh Testament 1/13/2003
30. The Cat And The Sea 1/3/2003
31. Here 1/3/2003
32. A Peasant 1/13/2003
33. Pisces 1/3/2003
34. Children's Song 1/13/2003
35. A Blackbird Singing 1/13/2003
36. Ninetieth Birthday 1/13/2003
37. A Day In Autumn 3/21/2004

Comments about Ronald Stuart Thomas

  • Theresa Dowling (9/4/2011 2:15:00 PM)

    A recent discovery! A genuine Christian poet when Christian poetry has almost become extinct. Thomas is not known at all in the U.S., except by an academic here and there - he certainly isn't taught. That is our loss!

    11 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
Best Poem of Ronald Stuart Thomas

A Day In Autumn

It will not always be like this,
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening

In the lawn’s mirror. Having looked up
From the day’s chores, pause a minute,
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene, something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.

Read the full of A Day In Autumn

Poetry For Supper

'Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.'

'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem's making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,

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